


Swallow Me (Everything Is Alright)

by th_esaurus



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Id Fic, M/M, POV First Person, vore ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 17:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10518318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: He did not judge me. I don't think he ever would. He was curious about me, asked me often what I was thinking."Of you," was all I usually admitted."Tell me something I don't know," he laughed.There was nothing about me, I suspected, that could still be secret from him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> a challenge to myself to capture something of aciman's style. sorry this is so fucking weird.

I spent so much time on his minutiae, on the parts of Oliver that made him a whole, that sometimes the obvious snuck up on me like a complete epiphany. I could spend an hour trying to ascertain whether the auricle of his left ear fit, more or less, into Fibonacci’s golden spiral, so that when he said to me, low and pleased, “Elio, we’re alone,” it was genuine shock that struck me.

It was true. The house was ours. How had it happened?

“Where shall we fuck?” he asked; we were blunt with each other now that the obligatory verbal dance was done and dusted.

“Everywhere,” I replied. His ear was a work of art. All of him, in fact. Golden.

*

I suffered - a lifelong affliction - from sharp fits of obsession; not with him, he was the constant, the motif that all my masochistic poetry centred upon. But thirty six hour flings with abstract parts of his body, acts of supplication I became desperate to perform, carnal fantasies I felt compelled to see to fruition lest I might die without ever having known if that, _that,_ was the one passionate throe above all others that would lead me to coital nirvana. I dismissed them all easily days later, if not acted upon in sufficient time. Others caught me in spontaneous moods, and I would blurt out my thoughts to him at night, making sure the light in our bedroom was not so low that I could not catalogue the expressions on his face. Every muscle in him drew me to him.

I wished I had all the time in the world to perform experiments upon him. Bind his wrists with leather in a stark metal chair, keep him in a white room and show him slides of photographs: a dog he had loved in childhood, an old vacation snapshot with his father's thumb in the corner, myself, bared to him, looking back at him coyly from over my shoulder; over my pale ass, my darkened asshole. I wanted to record every electric pulse inside his brain at everything he experienced. More than this, I wanted to hook wires up to his mind and send jolts along his nervous system; to see exactly what part of him needed to be stimulated to force a smile, a tap of his index finger, a shudder of his thigh. Was there a scientific method to make him hard? I wanted to know his figures, his facts. I wanted to reduce him to his atoms.

The next morning I would chastise myself for thinking of him so dispassionately. He was a wonder, not a specimen. By midday, the whole concept had become a distasteful joke.

So these fixations came and went.

One such brief fetish was entirely his own making. We had taken the bikes out to the farmland just north of B., where the lemon groves became thick and encompassing, and there among the citrus trees, the fruit pricked by the heat into filling the air with a clean, heady scent; there, we lent our bikes atop each other on the grass, and shucked down our shorts and I rode him, almost fully dressed. He groaned and grunted and laughed. His shirt was pale, mint, and would have grass stains when we were done.

I was close to coming when he sat up easily, one arm wrapping around my waist to keep me from jostling loose, his other hand grabbing the hem of my shirt to hike it up to my chin. Perhaps the lemon smell of the air made him remember his empty stomach; he latched his mouth onto my chest, bit and suckled at my nipples in turn. “Oliver--” I said--

“Oliver,” he growled in return.

“Elio…”

“Yes,” he murmured. “Elio.”

He sucked at my breast like Romulus and his twin, and I spilled with a ragged cry, white and thick on that pale green polo shirt. He pulled out of me almost at once, and canted his hips to the side, and came on the grass.

I wondered, in the aftermath, if, in two months time, Mafalda would buy these lemons from the market, squeeze them with her rough hands over pasta or butterflied chicken, serve them to my mother and father and I for dinner, the absent fourth place at the table no longer set for Oliver; no longer missed except on a particularly bright October day, when my mother might wonder what our _movie star_ was up to, whether his face was turned to the same sun in America. After we had eaten the lemons grown fat and luscious with his come in the soil.

The thought of it brought me to tears. “Did I hurt you?” he asked; this is what he always asked when I cried, and I always shook my head, shook my head even if he had hurt me, and even if I had liked it and wanted to ask for it again the next time. “What are you thinking of?”

“Lemons,” I said.

He laughed gently, and laid my head on his chest, and softly told me the etymology of all the citrus fruits he could think of. He played with my sore, wet nipples between his fingers. I wished he would bite them again, now that I could focus on the feeling of it, undistracted by his cock inside of me; but I hated to make requests of him while I was wet-cheeked and my features smudgy. I did not think he would take me seriously.

That night, he stuffed his pockets with cash and left for three hours of poker. I knew that on his return, he would climb the stairs quietly so as not to wake my parents, not bother to pause in his own room, and come straight across the balcony, into mine; into my bed, my arms, between my legs. If he had done well, he would suck me off, above the bed-sheets, where I could see the bob of his golden head; if he had lost money, I would console him, take his fingers into my mouth, kiss him on his lips and temple like a boy.

In the meantime, while I waited, I thought of his lips and teeth around the peak of my skin.

My fantasies had transfigured by the morning. I wanted us to feed each other like birds, mouth to mouth. I wanted him to nip at the tips of my fingers, too hard, biting skin and swallowing. I wanted to crawl inside his body while he slept, through his mouth, past the masticated pulp in his gullet, and dissolve myself in the acid of his stomach.

I took a breath, and tried to temper my thoughts.

I imagined myself waylaying Mafalda in the kitchen, before she could set his sweating glass of apricot juice before him at the table; taking it myself, and, on the way, spitting into the juice, so that he would unknowingly drink a part of me; smack his lips after and announce it delicious as always. That this excited me was absurd: he had already sucked my cock and swallowed the come. But to feed him something of myself unawares -- the thought made me giddy. I masturbated after breakfast, and was forced to shower a second time.

He could tell. He was good at schooling his smirk but I could see his open, sparkling eyes behind his sunglasses.

We kissed, discreetly at first, in the hallway between our conjoined rooms. I could not help but put my tongue in his mouth. “Enough,” he said, breathing fast. “Later--”

He said the word in such a different way to his usual, light tone that I groaned. What would come later? Both of us, certainly, but what else?

We stood apart from each other in the hall. My family was downstairs, close and chatty, and I hated them for their cloying affection.

I wished Oliver and I could rut like wolves, public and feral; that he would take the back of my neck between his teeth and draw blood as he climaxed; that his cock would swell inside me and tie us together, knotted like sailing rope, locked until intimacy became awkward, his come congealing with nowhere to go inside of me. I was ashamed of the things I wanted to tell him, but not that I wanted to say them to him. I had been terrified of that stare of his, once thinking it brazen and cold, a jury's silent judgement of my criminal intent towards him.

But he did not judge me. I don't think he ever would. He was curious about me, asked me often what I was thinking.

"Of you," was all I usually admitted.

"Tell me something I don't know," he laughed.

There was nothing about me, I suspected, that could still be secret from him.

I was still obsessed with his devouring me.

“You’ve been thinking about something,” he said to me that night.

“Of course.”

“Tell me?”

I looked him in the eye. “I want to be inside of you.”

“You know I don’t mind,” he shrugged.

“No, not like that--” I said, flitting so suddenly between surety and uncertainty; though of course I did want it like that, too; we had done it twice before, my fingers inside his asshole and then my cock, and it had felt extraordinary, extravagant, and I had become wild in my thrusts until he smoothed his hands over my hips to make me slower, steadier. I hated how it felt like I was as deep as I could go, and yet there was more of him. I hated that some part of him was always undiscoverable to me; that some bulky American jock, with wider shoulders and a bigger dick, could plough him more thoroughly even if he did not love Oliver as I did.

I managed to assuage this fear somewhat by coming inside of him, and pushing his legs up around my shoulders; to coat my semen further inside him.

“I get it,” he smiled.

We spent long, twilit hours kissing. His hands roved me as though I were braille and he a blind man, and then his mouth joined in. He did not like to bite and draw blood, but he latched his open mouth to clusters of veins on my neck, my wrists, and sucked hard. It felt too warm, his breath heating my blood where the vessels surged up under my skin. I lay there and let him. Whatever he wanted to do to me, it was what I wanted.

He told me about a youthful pact he had made, when he was half my age, with a boyhood friend the name of whom he could no longer remember. They had bitten the sides of their tongues to make them bleed, and spat the reddened spittle into the palms of their hands: shaking on a long-forgotten promise. I was jealous, and I told him so.

“You weren’t even born,” he chided gently.

“I wish you had saved yourself for me.” I knew, saying it, that it was ridiculous.

“You’re funny.”

“You like to laugh.”

“Well then,” he said, smiling.

By the next morning, he tried to wake me up with nipping kisses on my neck. “What are you doing?” I said, groggy.

“That’s the end of that one then, huh?” he chuckled.

So he knew. He knew my whims. I loved him for his attentiveness; hated him for seeing through me when I thought I could be inscrutable. I buried my face in his cheek in shame.

“I like it,” he mused. “You’re so changeable. You keep me on my toes.”

A part of me wanted him to domesticate me. To make it so that all I desired in life was to wait prettily for him at home while he journeyed back from his lectures, his research libraries, his devoted tutees. I would play him music, cook for him, take walks to second-hand bookstores and try to find him something new among the dusty shelves, read to him in bed, stroking his hair. When I imagined this, we were not in B., not even in Italy, nor were we in America, where I had never been and had only seen in photos, but some amalgamation of the two: tall buildings, rusting fire escapes, fruiting trees and rolling hills. Pollen and pollution dancing in the air. Cicadas and car horns.

Perhaps it would be better to stay malleable, then. To be exotic, a creature he was always second-guessing. To push him away and draw him back for more, make him fall in love with me anew month by month, year by year.

I hated these daydreams that assumed we had all the time in the world together.

“Kiss me,” I begged.

“You’ll get fat and lazy on my kisses,” he laughed, and put his wet mouth upon mine.

I wanted it more than anything.

“Elio,” he murmured between my lips.

“Elio--” I whispered back, as ever; as ever.


End file.
